Writespiration #88 It's a Dolls Life

Anyone who knows me, knows I am more than a little obsessed by dystopia. I’m like the uber geek fan girl constantly waving her burnt, shredded dystopia flag from the centre of whatever destroyed city I’m reading or writing about that day.

Diana wrote this post, and popped an image in I found a little spooky. Then Allie, told me about Doll Island. The myth goes that a guy found a drowned girl in the river, then her doll drifted up after her. He hung the doll up in respect for her lost soul. Then kept hanging dolls for 50 years after claiming he was haunted by the spirit of her and a bunch of other kids. Mysteriously he was found dead, drowned in exactly the same spot as her… *shudder*

The challenge:

Write a story about Doll Island, maybe its doll island in Mexico, or perhaps another kind of dystopian doll island, maybe they are all robots. Is it scary or a little girls heaven? Whatever you do include an island of dolls in your story. Less than 200 words please.

If you want to join in, leave your story in the comments below, or in a blog post using a ping back so I know you have participated. I am on a bit of a blog hiatus at the moment and because I read every entry it does take me up to a week to respond to your entry, I also moderate all comments so if you don’t see your story right away, it is there, I just haven’t got to it yet.

is the name of a meat that we used to eat as a kid it was called SPAM and I loved it we fried it in a pan and made sandwiches with eggs but now that I’m an adult I eat it and it’s the worst meat I can possibly imagine even though in Austin we have a festival every year (or used to), and its called SPAMarama based on Monty Python but a better festival is Eyorie’s Birthday because in Austin we do everything weird but there’s no point in weird SPAM because it’s junk meat.

There were always rituals to perform before battle. If I skipped even one, results could be deadly.

I bathed, carefully cleaning and shaving. My hair was washed, dried, and tightly plaited. Stepping to the mirror, I outlined my eyes. Some said they were my greatest weapon. I smiled and the woman in the mirror reflected the smile that didn’t reach cold gray eyes.

Armour
We are all clothed in it. There are days, as if it were Summer, when i wear only a light covering. Those are the days I spend around those I am comfortable with, where i don’t have to venture out.
In Winter weather, you will not hear my armour clink, nor will you notice my hesitant walk or guarded body language, but if you look closely at the smile I wear, you will note it stops just short of my eyes.

Armour
what I strap around
the soft tender places
to stop the barbs of pain
and a cage for my heart
to stop me reaching out
with misplaced forgiveness.

Jane then expanded this into something utterly beautiful:

Armour—

what I strap around

the soft, tender places

to stop the barbs of pain,

and a cage for my heart

to stop me reaching out

with misplaced forgiveness.

I knew you’d call, and part of me, the tender, wounded, cut-to-shreds part that still bleeds tears of bright memories, longed for it. Another part, the sensible part said: stop your ears to the siren call, and shout your anger and your pain, drown out the mellifluous effusions of sorrow and regret because they are lies, bare-faced and hollow.

The phone rings.

I pick up.

Your voice, deep, warm and hesitant.

The day, the bird singing, the warm light falling in dapples on my hand, all dissolve in a soft muddled haze.

Is there any armour proof against the hope of love?

Next up Simon, who has a really cool space oriented challenge if you want to pop over here and join in

He ducked to avoid his enemy’s viscious swings. He had to fight for his very life as he had no aroumour. His wits and the sword in his hand were all he had. The heavily clad warrior lifted his sword for another swing, he brought him arm to block him. The two swords met with fearsome force, sparks flying off the edges easily visible in the low light if the dim corridor.

This was the day. The first day of life as the new me. I zipped open my gym bag and grabbed my brand new uniform – a bright yellow free breathing shirt, some contrasting, yet still perfectly coordinated stretchy pants, and an awesome new under armour sports bra. Then I tried to pull everything on. Hmmm. I know I am supposed to sweat as I work out, but I rather thought that was supposed to happen after I exited the locker room…

Okay. Tomorrow. Tomorrow sounds like a great first day for the new me.

The date is November 3rd 1324. Drizzle falls like tears from a swollen sky, but it is not so grim without as within. I sit with Petronella through her last moments, in a cell dank with mould and ripe with the ghosts of its past inhabitants.

Her body is gaunt and bloody, her skin a mass of puckered welts and scabs, broken open and oozing, the souvenirs of her private torture and public floggings. She holds her head high, hands folded together and resting still like pale butterfly wings in her lap.

“Your pyre is built high,” I say. “They want everyone to see it.”

“I am the first,” she replies, “but I will not be the last.”

“But you did nothing wrong.”

“The truth is not relevant, only what people believe.”

“Why did you confess?”

She looks at me for the first time. “To make it stop.”

I bite back my impatience. “And now you will burn for it.”

“So how could I win?” She smiles, a broad glowing smile, as footsteps echo distantly on stone. She gets to her feet, raising a hand to smooth the tangles from her hair.

“How can you smile?”

The key turns in the lock with a rasping, metallic protest, and the door begins to swing open.

She pauses. “Armour, isn’t it?” And then she is gone.

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52 comments

Hi Sacha, that doll thing… *shudder* creepy to say the least. Thanks for linking to my space project… I’m falling behing I’m not getting the time to se t it up grrr….
Life is hectic
(Sorry for saying thank you :-P)

Thanks for the mention, Sacha 🙂 Those photos from doll island are SO CREEPY! I actually couldn’t watch the whole thing. Ew, shudder. Great inspiration, though. I can’t wait to see what comes out of it. And wonderful stories from the last prompt. Such talent out here in blogland.

Jenny pulled on a pair of rubber boots. The paperwork in the van had announced that the house’s late owner had been a hoarder. She’d seen a few places like that and had learned the hard way to dress with some extra protection before making her inspection. Somedays she didn’t know why they bothered with the process. In almost all cases the building wound up being condemned.

The door squealed like a cat in heat as Jenny made her way inside. The scent of sulfur and old urine assaulted her nostrils. “How do people live like this,” she muttered.

“According to the niece’s statement, her aunt claimed that unless she continued to collect dolls as ‘vessels,’ the house’s demons would start taking people instead.”

Jenny shook her head at her partner’s words, but there was no denying the mountain of dolls that met them in the center of the room. However she was surprised to see a clear path around the dolls. Most hoards filled every available space, but this collection was an island. She took a step closer. The dolls’ eyes opened. Her partner screamed and Jenny knew no more.

I have this creepy fascination with the Island of the Dolls. It’s all about death, and littered with the creepiest dolls, toys of the young. I wonder who are these brave souls that go on this island to hang even more horrifyingly ugly dolls. I would love to go some time, but I would be afraid something would come back with me.